A tune from “Top Hat” was bursting from the radiogram as they went into the house, and Dave turned it down, so that Brian heard a pan sizzling from the kitchen stove. “Where you bin, our Dave?” Ada called accusingly. “It’s about time yo’ brought some money into this bleedin’ ’ous.”
“I would if I could get some,” he said. “I’ll tek them rags in on Monday and you can ’ev a few bob.” Ada was a good-looking blonde of forty, with six kids and one expected, boss of a family reduced by approved school and borstal — Bert having been taken to the former for lifting bicycle lamps, and Colin to the latter for impersonating a gas-meter man. The table overflowed with pots and half-eaten leftovers, and Dave nearly choked on a line of clothes strung across the room. “Look where yer goin’, yer daft bleeder,” Doddoe said from the hearth, speaking for the first time.
Brian found a chair, sat, and watched fourteen-year-old Johnny mending one of his father’s poaching nets on the other side of the room. Johnny was gaffer of the kids while Colin was in borstal, a self-appointed sergeant-major with meaty fists, and a sense of righteousness because he brought money into the house without stealing. He had done time at an approved school, and had learned to recognize authority and know what it meant to knuckle under to it. If you did as you were told at approved school the masters put you in positions of power over the other boys; and though Johnny could hold dominion by toughness alone, it was double-sweet and sure to have your power sanctioned by those above you. He was generous and good-hearted, though firm and inclined to bullying when his righteous will was disobeyed. He was Doddoe’s favourite, though it wasn’t acknowledged, and they rarely spoke to each other. But Brian felt an alliance of likenesses, so obvious in fact that it was recognized and commented on by others of the family, though beyond words to Doddoe and Johnny.
The unifying quality was one of fearlessness. Unable to get work and having a family to feed, Doddoe was absolutely convinced that it was right to go poaching in order to get food. It was more a question of good and evil, for while food in the form of rabbits was running on four legs around estates of the rich, who anyway had all the grub — and more — they needed for themselves, then Doddoe was right and fearless in his pursuit of it. He went on his bike most nights into the country, dressed in an army overcoat and wearing a cap, a knapsack slung over his shoulder to carry nets and whatever fur-covered victims ran into them — of which he would have plenty by dawn. A cosh sticking from the pocket of his topcoat was useful for knocking rabbits on the head if they struggled too long in the net, or for swinging at the gamekeeper should it come to a fight.
Johnny was equally strong, though in lesser ways because still young. Brian remembered a time when a pair of shoes dropped off Johnny’s feet and he lacked an overcoat in snow-covered months. Johnny had made the best of things: knocked the high heels from a pair of his mother’s, put on one of her fur-collared coats she had cut down for him, and walked off well-protected to school. No boys had laughed, but his teacher made a reference to his woman’s attire and Johnny, the words cutting into him like knives, couldn’t hide his bitterness from Ada that night. Nevertheless, he went to school clad the same next day and halfway through the class was astounded to see his mother walk into the room. “Your name Martin?” she demanded, standing by the teacher’s desk. He was even more stunned than Johnny at the buxom fierceness of blonde Ada. “Yes,” he said, “what do you want?” Ada’s fist landed hard across the side of his face. “That’ll teach you to tell our Johnny off because he’s got no clothes”—and walked out of the room. That same day the teacher took him to the nearest shop and rigged him up with a new pair of boots. “It just shows what a lot o’ good you can do when you stick up for your kids,” Ada remarked before breaking into a laugh when Johnny clomped into the house that night.
Doddoe sat by the table, bare feet stuck on the range for warmth, a basin of tea in his hand. He turned and greeted Brian: “Hello, yer young bleeder, what are yo’ doin’ ’ere?” He was out of work and his hard grizzle-haired head wasn’t in the best of tempers. Brian was on the point of answering when Dave, just back from a scrounge in the kitchen, said: “I brought ’im ’ome, dad. He wants summat to eat.”
“He’ll get nowt at this bleedin’ ’ouse,” Doddoe said. “We ain’t got enough to feed our bleedin’ sens.” And he turned back to staring in the fire. Ada came in with a plate of bacon and tomatoes, and Dave sat down to eat. “How are you, Brian, my owd duck? Is Vera all right?”
“Yes.”
“Has rotten Harold bin on to ’er lately?”
“No.”
“I’ll bet you’re ’ungry,” she said. “Are you?” His answers were short, discouraged by Doddoe. “Well, just wait five minutes and I’ll get yer summat.” Dusk filled the room with gloom and shadows, and Dave, chewing a piece of bread from his hand, stood up to switch on the light. “Yer’d better put that bleeder off,” Doddoe said, without turning round. “We’ll have the man ’ere soon to collect some money for the radiogram and we’ve got nowt to give ’im.”
But Ada said it should stay on: “When he comes for money Dave can go to the door and tell ’im we’re not in. I’m not goin’ ter sit ’ere wi’out any light.” Brian ate bacon and tomatoes, dipped his bread in juice and fat, uneasy at eating with Doddoe in the room, though so hungry he couldn’t but enjoy the meal.
Johnny finished the net, rolled it up for his father. “Thanks, Johnny. You’re a good lad. I’ll gi’ yer tuppence in the mornin’ when I’ve sold the rabbits.” Doddoe swung his bare feet from the range, dragged boots from beneath the table, and pulled them on without socks, tugging each lace tight through faded eye-holes. He went into the kitchen, and they heard him slinging cold water around his face. As he was donning his topcoat, a sharp knock sounded at the door and everyone stopped talking, eating, dressing, playing. “That’ll be the radiogram man,” Ada hissed. “Go and see ’im. You know what to tell ’im.”
Dave stood up: “I should. I’ve ’ad enough practice”—strode to the hallway. Doddoe was both into and out of his topcoat, like a half-draped statue, and Ada held the teapot, about to pour a last cup of tea before he left for the night’s poaching. Brian’s mouth was full, stayed that way until the crisis was over. The two children stopped playing on the rug, as if they had been trained like seals to be silent at such times. Only the fire flickered in the grate, and that was all right because it made no noise.
Dave opened the door — was greeted by a polite brisk voice saying: “Good evening.”
“Evenin’,” Dave slurred, towering over him.
“I’m from Norris’s,” the man explained. “Is your mother in?”
“She’s gone out.”
“Do you know when she’ll be back?” He stood in the rain, trying not to get his boots wet. “She wain’t be in tonight,” Dave said, into his stride. “She’s gone to her sister’s at Leicester.”
“Will she be back in the morning?” he probed. “I can call around then.” The briskness was leaving his voice, as though he knew it was a hopeless task.
“She might be away a week. Her sister’s badly in hospital and mam might ’ave ter wait till she dies.”